His Last Vow: Alternative Ending
by omegaxx
Summary: What if John Watson had actually been the John Watson we knew, with "strong moral principle" and "nerves of steel"? What if Sherlock Holmes had actually been the Sherlock Holmes we knew, "prepared to do what ordinary people won't do"? This story is how, in my mind, "His Last Vow" should have ended.


_His Last Vow: Alternative Ending_

_I_

_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man._

_Here we go, Mr. Holmes._

_Declare. Appledore vaults only exist in your mind._

_No where else._

_Just there._

_They're not real. They never have been._

_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away._

_It's fine. They're harmless._

_Sherlock, what do we do?_

_Nothing. There's nothing to be done. Oh I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a business man collecting assets; you just happen to be one of them. Sorry, no chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes._

_Oh do your research! I'm not a hero. I'm a…_

Sherlock was generally very good at pickpocketing. Lestrade, Mycroft, the poor waiters who lost their glasses and ties to his grandiose idea of making a dramatic entrance back into my life: they had all fallen victim to him. This time, though, this time his hand shook.

Perhaps he was still weak from recuperating. Perhaps he was withdrawing from opiates. But his hand shook. 'Tis true, this god did shake.

Why did I think of the Bard? I had, literally, a split second to realize what he was doing and put an end to it, and all I could think to do was to quote _Julius Caesar_.

At least my body was autonomous: a soldier's instinct, my years in Afghanistan paying off.

Without a thought my hand reached forth. Without a thought I grabbed his hand on the trigger. He reeled. I yanked. He lost his aim. I tried to wrench it from his hand; it was harder than dispossessing your usual druggie. He turned around. Our faces were very close. I could barely get the words out from between my teeth,

"No. Alright, stop it now."

His face was all scrunched up, the way he looked when he thought no one could see him or, rather, when all eyes were on him but he felt none could see deep inside him. "John," said he, "John, please, will you do this for me?"

"Just stop it, stop this." The sky, the dusk, everything was reeling, but my mind was surprisingly clear. "I know what you were about to do. Just stop it."

"Do what?" he smiled bleakly, the fool, trying to charm his way out, "How did you know?"

"Oh I know perfectly well. Because you're an idiot, Sherlock Holmes, that's how I know. Because you're a sociopath, because only a sociopath can think that I would let my best friend sacrifice his life for my wife. Because you're not even human, because no human can think that I will bear lose you again after those two years, those two years..."

I stopped, out of breath, unable to go on.

He paused, for a second or an eternity, who could tell. Then he smiled.

It was only when Mycroft's legion closed in on us that I realized Magnussen was prostrate on the ground, a cold fog of death over him.

The shot was fired, the clearest shot that, for a split second, even silenced the hum of the helicopter blades. A shot was fired from our gun—and I had not even heard it.

The East Wind came. I felt cold at heart, the unique coldness of doom that I have only felt three times before. The first, when a Taliban bullet exploded in my shoulder. The second, when I saw Sherlock fall like a huge, black bird into the abyss. The third, when I saw the mother of my child walk in through those doors, the gun in her hand.

My wife… I must have really missed her, for at that moment my imagination caught a whiff of Clair de la Lune in the air.

_II_

_As my colleague is fond of remarking, this country sometimes needs of a blunt instrument. Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger, a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse. There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes._

_If this is some expression of a familial sentiment…_

_Don't be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one. In any event, there is no prison in which we could incarcerate Sherlock without causing a riot on a daily basis. The alternative, however, would require your approval._

_Hardly merciful, Mr. Holmes._

_Regrettably, Lady Smallwood, my brother is a murderer._

"Regrettably, indeed, if that were true. However, as a representative of justice in this country, I must abide by the protocol. Have we established, beyond all reasonable doubt, that it is indeed your brother who committed the murder?"

Mycroft was more than a little taken aback, "What do you mean, Lady Smallwood?"

Lady Smallwood opened a file on her desk.

"What I mean is the following. Here I have the ballistics report. The firearm taken from the hand of Sherlock Holmes, which he took from the pocket of Dr. John Watson, was a British Army Browning L9A1, three-fifty-seven calibre, and a shot had indeed been fired. The bullet retrieved from Magmussen's body, however, was a twenty-two—clearly not fired from the same gun. Furthermore—" continued her ladyship, shushing Mycroft with a quiet look, "I have the forensic report here. Charles Augustus Magmussen was standing with his back to Sherlock Holmes when the shot was fired, by your very own report and those of every witness present. The entry site of the bullet, however, was in his chest. It is hardly conceivable that Sherlock Holmes' bullet took an one-eighty turn, is it not?"

"Your ladyship…"

"Your brother's bullet went into the stratosphere, most likely, during his struggle with Dr. Watson. Someone else, hidden, most likely, in the bushes that surrounded Appledore, must have fired the shot at the same time Sherlock's gun went off. Mr. Holmes, that another person was responsible for the death of Charles Augustus Magmussen is hardly a difficult deduction. The fact that you needed a ballistics and a forensic report, and I, of all people, to interpret it for you, only speaks to your dedication to this country, for which we hold you in our highest regard."

"Your ladyship is very kind, but…"

"Mr. Holmes, as far as the law is concerned, your brother is chargeable with attempted murder. I shall look into the specifics some more, but we should be able to come up with a more reasonable sentence, based on the not inconsiderable service he has done for the country. Unfortunately, what with the negligence paid to the crime scene as everyone thought they had the murderer on the spot, I doubt that we will ever found the true murderer. I trust, however, that you will put your best man to it."

She closed the file before her and touched neck.

Never had I been happier in my life and the same, as far as I could deduce, could be said of Mycroft. However, you could never tell that, based on the forbidding look he casted me before slinking out.

What was remarkable to me was that the Secret Services still bothered going through the formalities of a ballistics and forensic report when they thought they witnessed the murder before them. Or perhaps, as it occurred to me later, one of the Holmes brothers had something to do with that: unlikely Mycroft—he would never had let the murderer get away so easily had he actually had the cool at Appledore to think about acquitting his brother. This left my cold-hearted bastard of a best friend who, even in his most intimate, human moments, was still a deadly machine, calculating his way out of every quandary, Mr. Cat-of-Nine-Lives. But of course we all knew that.

_III_

"Well," said I, putting my cup back in the saucer. We were back at 221b Baker Street.

"Well," said Sherlock, his elbows on his knees, his palms facing but not touching, his fingers delicately tapping against each other as if he was strumming the violin.

"You just told him off like that, after he just told you he could get you off free if you only would assist him with this case."

"Yup."

"Care to explain why?"

"The fact is, John, that I considered Charles August Magmussen the most dangerous men in London and that I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge."

"You think it was revenge. You think that someone else was stalking Magnussen, and took advantage of our presence to take revenge?"

"There's hardly another explanation. A man like that naturally has many enemies."

"And you'd rather take this punitive mission than to help track this criminal down?"

"A mere fortnight in Eastern Europe. I can use a holiday. It's gotten awfully dreary in London this winter." I inhaled. "It's no use arguing, John," said Sherlock relentlessly, "I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case."

He picked up the cup by his side, only to realize that it was empty.

I inhaled again, "That is one explanation of your behaviour."

He smirked, "And the other is?"

"You are the one who—"

Right at that moment Mary walked in, "Tea anyone?"

Boston, February 28 2014


End file.
